Eve Killer
by enigma939
Summary: James Bond's contemplations just after he kills a woman for the first time. Post-CR, Post-QOS


**Eve Killer**

**A/N: **James Bond is the property of EON Productions and the estate of Ian Flemming.

It was Christmas Eve in Berlin and James Bond stumbled into a bar. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes and his face was drenched in blood which he had hastily attempted to wipe out, and there was a haggard and weary expression on his face. He looked quite literally like a man who had gone through hell and was yet to fully come back.

The bartender stared at him, as did quite a few other patrons in the bar, but Bond simply ignored their stares. He simply wasn't in the mood to care.

"Vodka martini. Shaken not stirred", he mumbled, almost incoherently, while suddenly wincing, owing to the excruciating pain emitting from a knife wound on his stomach.

The bartender simply stared at him in disbelief. Bond cursed under his breath, reached into his wallet, withdrew a small role of bills and thrust it into the bartender's hand. "Hurry", he half-shouted.

Twenty minutes later, he had finished his fourth martini, and asked for another one. When the bartender refused, Bond impulsively made a gesture to draw his Walther PPK and threaten the man, but held himself back in the last minute. M might forgive him for killing a man in an African embassy, but certainly not for starting a shootout in a crowded bar on Christmas Eve.

"Just do it", he said harshly in German, handing over another role of bills. The bartender stared at him, bewildered, for a few moments before shrugging his shoulders and fixing this drink. Who was this strange Englishman, he wondered, who stormed in here bleeding almost to death, who liberally handed out money without giving a shit, and downed down four martinis, without getting drunk, but instead getting even more sulky and ill-tempered and asking for more.

Bond however didn't give a damn about what the bartender or what anyone else thought of him for that matter. He was thinking about a woman. A _dead _woman. And for once, it wasn't Vesper Lynd or Strawberry Fields. It was a woman _he_ had killed. Personally. Even now he could imagine the scene. Francine leaning down near the edge of the rooftop, sniper rifle with telescopic sight expectedly held in her hands, her beautiful blonde hair glistening in the moonlight. And then, almost as if by magic, a bullet pierced her skull, blood erupted from her head, she fell to the ground and was dead.

But it _wasn't _magic. The bullet did not come from no where. It came from his gun. And he had pulled the trigger. He had hesitated for a moment, just for a moment, before pulling the trigger. He didn't know whether to love or hate himself for that. Love himself for his feeble compassion; hate himself for his momentary lapse in efficiency.

Ever since he had been singled out for 00 status nearly six months ago, Bond had known exactly what the job would involve. And he was prepared to give his life to the job. It wasn't long before he realized he would have to give his soul as well. But he went on nonetheless. His first kill had been messy, but the second had been easy. Too clean and too easy. He got used to it. It didn't bother him in the least. It was his job to pull the trigger when necessary in order to save queen and country, just like it was a gardener's job to prune the weeds or an accountant's job to add up the numbers. It was a job and he was getting paid handsomely for it, and that was all there was to it.

But he had never, ever imagined he would have to do something like what he had done tonight. Tonight was…madness, barbarity…what exactly? He didn't know what to call it. He didn't even know if such a despicable thing had a name.

He had killed a woman, in cold blood. He had killed many men by now, but never a woman. He never thought he would have to.

It had all started the previous day. He was on leave, vacationing in Jamaica, when M had contacted him and requested him to return to London immediately. She was apologetic about it, she knew that he needed the break desperately, but it was a simple job that would get over in a day, and she couldn't send any other agent, since 002 had been missing during an assignment in Malaysia for weeks, 005 was in hospital after barely surviving an assassination attempt, and 008 had died a few days earlier, of food poisoning of all things! So it was up to 007, Bond, to do the job.

The mission _was _simple. Quantum had sent an assassin to Berlin in order to kill the British ambassador to Germany. Bond had to find the assassin and stop him, by any means necessary, including exercising his license to kill.

Bond readily agreed to the mission. He was willing to do anything involving MI6's operations against Quantum. Besides he hadn't been to Berlin, the city of his birth, in a long while. So he was on the next flight to the German capital immediately after the briefing.

He arrived in the city and spent most of the day meeting up with undercover contacts of his, both British and German, trying to discover any evidence of the assassin's presence in the city. There were none. The assassin hadn't purchased weapons anywhere in the city, not had he hired any help from the city's underworld. He had gotten in somehow with whatever he needed and whoever he needed. He was invisible, and he was ready.

Bond realized that the only time the assassin _would _show himself or herself would be at the time of the kill. And so, after conferring with the staff of the British Embassy to take all possible precautions and tighten the ambassador's security, Bond headed back to his hotel to shower and change, and prepare himself for the night. For he was convinced that the only possible time for the assassin to strike would be at night, when the ambassador would leave the embassy in his armored limousine. He would be guarded both inside and outside the embassy. However, it was obvious that the assassin could not finish the job when the ambassador was inside and neither could he strike when the ambassador was in his limousine. Therefore, the only possible window period for making the hit was in the one or two minutes when the ambassador would be in the open. For a skilled sniper, two minutes was an eternity. But the assassin could not know for certain the _exact _moment of the ambassador's departure. Which was why he would be lying in wait for perhaps an hour or so, on one of the nearby rooftops. And Bond would he there was well. He would find the waiting assassin and kill him before he even had the chance to put his finger in the trigger guard. For Bond knew that capturing the assassin was of no value; he would, in all probability know nothing of value. Besides, only a death would send Quantum a message: British dignitaries were well-protected; the only reward for attempting to assassinate them was a violent end…

Bond resolved to get back into the field at approximately eight o'clock, since he had checked the embassy schedules and knew that the ambassador was not likely to leave before nine. An hour would be sufficient to stalk out a killer and eliminate him. In the meantime he would have a drink in the bar and go out for dinner.

It was in the bar that it happened. A young Frenchwoman, a tall blonde in her late twenties had caught his eye and smiled. As was inevitable with Bond, one thing followed another, and before long he and his new lady-friend, Francine were dining at an expensive Italian restaurant in the middle of the city.

Francine was a freelance artist who lived in London and who had stopped by in Berlin for a day before heading over to spend Christmas with her family in Bonn. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that Bond came from London as well. Bond gave her the usual cover story about being a mid-level executive for Universal Exports and explained that she was vacationing in Paris. Though at first she appeared reserved, she gradually began to demonstrate a more vibrant personality. By the end of the dinner, the two had briefly shared a kiss, and Bond would certainly have taken her back to his hotel room, had he not had more important matters to deal with. Nevertheless, he did make a promise to meet Francine again later in London. With that, they went their separate ways.

They were to meet again. But not in London, a few weeks later, but on a rooftop in Berlin later that very evening. Bond was on the rooftop of a building opposite the embassy, surveying the nearby rooftops with powerful infrared binoculars. He had surveyed many of the nearby buildings already in the past half-hour, but there was no sign of any assassin. Bond was starting to wonder whether MI6's information was flawed, when he noticed the slightest movement on the roof of a building _adjacent _to the embassy. He zoomed in on the approximate centre of the movement and was startled with what he found; for there was clearly, unmistakable the outline of a black form-a _human _form, lying against the wall of the rooftop, cloaked in darkness.

The sniper was there! And Bond knew that whatever he needed to do, it had to be done fast. For the ambassador's limousine had pulled up outside the embassy. The ambassador would himself be out in a few minutes. Bond had to act!

He took the elevator down, and made his way towards the adjacent building. He pressed the button to call for the elevator of this building, but there was no response. He understood; the assassin had deactivated the elevator somehow. Thus the stairs were the only option and Bond knew, from his long years of experience, that stairwells were the best places for an ambush.

So he ran up the stairs swiftly, but cautiously. He wasn't disappointed. There were no less than three guards, situated at various points on the building; trained mercenaries presumably hired out from various European crime cartels. But however well the crime bosses trained their men in armed and unarmed combat, MI6 trained _their _men better. Within minutes, each of the three men were bleeding corpses on the floor; two of them shot in the head and throat, one stabbed to death viciously with his own knife. But the men had cost him stamina, and far more vital; _time_.

So he gained the last floor and ran onto the roof, thanking his lucky stars that the door was open. The first thing he did was look for the assassin. Within seconds, he found him; no, not him, but _her_.

She had taken off what was obviously a black ski-mask that was part of her camouflage, presumably so that it did not interfere in any way with her sight. The sniper rifle, with infrared telescopic sight attached was held expertly in her hands. Her blonde hair was glistening in the moonlight. _Francine's _hair. The hair of a young woman whom he had had dinner with barely an hour ago…a young woman who would right now have been in his bed had he not had to come here.

But in a terrible moment of realization, he understood. There _would _have been no rendezvous in his hotel. Because she had to come here to kill the ambassador, and he…he had to come here to kill whoever was killing the ambassador. Kill _her_.

The Walther was out in his hand before he knew it and he aimed it at her head. But he hesitated. He didn't really know why. The gun was in his hand, all he needed to do was pull the trigger. She had her job and he had his. They were on opposite sides of the battlefield. And there was only one thing to be done.

He was snapped out of his reverie when he saw her finger inching over the trigger. He inclined his head to the right, saw the ambassador about ten stories below, just about to get into his car. He made his decision. It was now or never.

He pulled the trigger. He saw the blood erupt from her skull, saw her fall to the ground. And walked away.

He walked in the streets for fifteen minutes, before he took out his cellphone and coldly told the station chief in Berlin to arrange for the collection of the bodies. He did not need to say anything about the mission being accomplished; if it hadn't, the news would have been filled with coverage of the British ambassadors death.

Before long Bond realized that his body was aching. Was it because of the mild injuries he had sustained in his confrontations with the three guards? Or was it the mental pain, the emotional agony struggling to come to the surface; barely held back by his stoic reserve?

He needed a drink. That was all he knew. Hence the bar. And here he sat, in solitary contemplation of…what…he didn't know. He thought a bit about Francine. A woman he'd just picked up at a bar, as he had done so often before. But none of _them _had been assassins; members of an international band of hidden conspirators. Or were they? Bond couldn't know for certain. He couldn't trust anyone. Least of all a woman. Not since Vesper. But he hadn't loved Francine…he simply wanted to spend some time with her…there had been a certain familiarity between them that night, during their conversation. And all the while, she had been passing the time, before she would go out to kill. Like him.

He pondered over all the things she had said about herself. He wondered if they were true. He wondered in fact whether 'Francine' even was her real name. It might have been, it might not have been; what it really was didn't make a difference now. She was dead. He had killed her. She was nothing more than a statistic in the MI6 computers now; a data entry in his file, an addition to his ever-growing list of kills. That's all she was.

He knew why he felt differently about this particular death. She was a woman. He had never killed a woman before. And yet, he had never killed a man before either, once upon a time. It was something on learnt and got used to. But somehow, he felt, he feared rather, that he would never get used to. Why? He didn't know. Was it because he couldn't bear to kill someone he'd rather sleep with? He almost laughed at that. It was such a ridiculously humorous thought…

He suddenly realized just how ridiculous his life had become. It was Christmas Eve, across the world people were celebrating and spreading the message of universal joy and peace and brotherhood. And what was he, James Bond, doing? Killing women on darkened rooftops and drowning out what was left of his feelings with vodka! And perhaps tomorrow, if news of the would-be-assassins demise reached the media, she would be labeled the 'Christmas Eve Killer'. Eve-killer. A strange term. Almost a pun, in this context. And he somehow felt it applied to him. After all, tonight, he had become an eve-killer of sorts. It was such a ridiculous term. And yet, so true, so very true…

The more human part of him, the part that contained whatever was left of his soul, was tired and weary with disgust and self-loathing. But the part of him that was a cold professional; that contained his mind, a mind accustomed to plotting and conspiring against his country's enemies was now in play. He brusquely got up and like an automaton, made his way outside the bar. He would check into a hospital, the station chief had a few contacts in one whose discretion could be relied on. Then there was the practical matter of booking his flight to London, making his report. And then what? A trip back to Jamaica. Or a quite solitary Christmas in his flat in London. The dozens of minor irrelevant details that followed a 'job'. So what if he had killed a woman, he coldly thought, he would probably have to kill dozens in the years to come. In his business, people got killed. One learnt to live with the fact. One almost embraced it.

Yes, thought Bond, one embraced what one did…


End file.
